And Thus We Found Each Other And Made Ourselves A Home
by LadyTP
Summary: He was different than all the others - in his wrath but also because he saw her like no others. Clandestine meetings in the Red Keep lead to something much bigger. Drabbles prompt fic to sansaxoldmenweek challenge in Tumblr.
1. Waiting

**Author's notes:** This started form a drabble I wanted to write to a Tumblr sansaxoldmenweek prompt while on holiday. Something quick and easy, no sweat, not too long. Well, I started from one prompt, mixed it with another, and before too long I noticed myself going through all 6 prompts and weaving them into a single story.

The prompts were: Waiting, Fascinated, Trusting, Pleased, Breathless and Home. Still; not too long, something simple – and here we go!

* * *

Sansa shifted her weight from one leg to another, weary of the long wait standing at the top of the stairs hidden in a narrow recess against the crumbling stone walls. For the hundredth time her mind tried in vain to fathom _why_ she was there - and once again found no answer that would have made any sense.

 _He thinks me an annoying chirping little girl. He will only growl at me – again._

Her hands were sweaty and she wiped them against her dress. He growled at everyone, he had eyes full of burning rage, he was always surrounded by a waft of dark anger.

Time went on and only a lone cat brushed by her, turning its head to observe her as she stood there, silent and unmoving. Its feline eyes narrowed as it was judging her – and finding her wanting the cat continued its journey into the keep's deep recesses.

 _How long should I wait? What if he doesn't come?_

 _What if he DOES come?_

Finally heavy footsteps approached from down the hall, iron studded boots scraping against stone. Sansa swallowed hard while the loud sound of her own heartbeat thundered inside her chest. _Now._

Slow, unsteady steps, one by one, down the stairs. Fear and excitement made her head dizzy. Sudden panic flared in her mind, clinching her with its cold grasp. _What am I doing?_

"The fuck the little bird roaming here on her own?!"

The words were ugly, his voice raspy and his sneer hideous. A lock of lank dark hair had fallen over his eyes and he tossed his head to better stare down at her, taking his time to let his eyes roam all over her body. He didn't hold it for long though, soon casting his gaze aside with a rare look of uncertainty crossing his face. She had never seen him so and she was glad that it was the man and not the hound that was facing her.

Her mind latched on his words. _Only he calls me little bird._

Yet she had no words of her own. Any excuse about being on her way back from the Godswood had evaporated leaving her empty and exposed. She stared at the wide belt wrapped around his waist, the frayed ends of its leather bindings and the cruel looking sword hanging from it. If she would try to lift it, it would defy her and bore her down, but she had seen him swinging it as lightly as she did her needle. His size, his strength and his bad temper should have been enough to warn her from crossing paths with him, but she had waited for him for so long…

"I…" The unformed statement died on her lips forgotten and she could hear and feel more than see the heavy sigh, the impatient heaving of his broad chest and the way his body swayed on the spot.

"Bugger me with my own sword but I can't let you stay here. Back to your cage – and don't make me tell you twice."

The yank at her arm was sharp but his fingers wrapped around it were warm and his grip firm. Sansa followed him meekly, adjusting his pace to his long strides. He didn't loosen his hold on her and when they walked she could smell him; sweat, horses, outdoors. Her skirts touched his side and she shivered as if that innocent touch was a bridge built between her and him _._

She felt safe. She felt like she could be in danger.

She felt _alive._


	2. Fascinated

He was full of contradictions.

His grey eyes could be hard as stone - but sometimes Sansa had seen a flicker of hesitation in them when she caught him unguarded. His calloused hands could crush a man as easily as another man could swat a fly - but their touch had been oddly gentle when he had wiped the blood from her lip. His huge body clad in iron was a moving fortress towering menacingly over anyone near him – but there had been times when his presence had given her unexpected comfort and for a brief moment she had felt _protected_.

Locked in a gilded cage in the lions' den she had been broken and destitute, not a friendly face around. And then she had noticed _him_ and a strange pull had taken hold of her.

 _He is a warrior and a grown man and he has no time for stupid little girls._ Sansa knew that well, but it didn't prevent her being drawn to him like a moth to flame.

He was taller than any other man but his absent brother. Sansa had loved – she had _thought_ she had loved - a lithe prince of gold and grace and yet she found herself studying the one who was more beast than a man, swarthy and crude and coarse.

She observed him when she was sure he wouldn't notice, and she saw how he flinched when Joffrey boasted about his brave battle plans to bring down the King in the North, and the almost unnoticeable roll of eyes when Queen Cersei launched one of her many tirades. She saw how the black beast he rode, and who trampled all others who dared to get too close, was meek as a spring lamb when his master scratched him behind the ears, and how the castle dogs didn't shy away from him like they did from many others who had a habit of kicking them with no reason at all.

Sansa saw all this and she liked what she saw.

 _Don't be stupid,_ she chastised herself. _What of a few kind gestures?_ Winter was still coming and she was all alone without her pack, without her wolf. Dog could be no substitute. _As if I could want to have anything to do with him - am I losing my mind?_

Sometimes his eyes followed her. Not like those of other men; when she dared to look back he didn't break into a lascivious smile, didn't look away discomfited, or didn't look right through her as if she wasn't there. No, he met her eyes and took her in and saw right through her into her mind and soul and it was _she_ who turned away – only to soon seek his face again, then more often than not seeing him turned away and studiously avoiding her.

 _It is not he I truly think about, he is just one who has been less cruel than all the others, s_ he told herself.

Once he caught her looking and snarled at her.

"What are you gawking at, girl? Little bird scared of a dog?" He jeered and made a face that would have scared her, before. She was still hesitant with him and muttered mildly something about how she had not intended to offend.

"You _better_ be scared of the dog, you better be scared of _everyone_ around here. You have no friends in this keep and there is no-one here who means you well in this cesspit of rogues and backstabbers. Run to your gilded cage and stay there if you want to be safe."

He looked the part of a foe and his growl was menacing but Sansa saw the fault in his logic immediately. Emboldened by him taking the time to actually converse with her she replied to him timidly.

"But isn't that the kind of advice only a friend would offer?"

He looked at her oddly, snorted and turned away. Watching his retreating back Sansa chastised herself for speaking out of turn – but then at the end of the hall he turned again and stared at her for a long time and she didn't get an impression that he was being wrathful.

That only fed the flames that burned inside her and kept her awake when night was dark and the keep was quiet. Then _he_ was the only thing preventing her mind drifting into the horror of the sight of her father kneeling on polished steps, and how all that she had based her life on had been wiped away with one swing of a sword.

She didn't have a name for what it was that she felt and so she gave up trying defining it. All she knew was that she waited for those footsteps, iron studded boots scraping against stone.


	3. Trusting

He had not growled at her any more than what was proper and his touch had not been overly harsh. He was the prince's sworn shield and he had to obey orders, surely? _He can't hurt me._

Sansa grew bold and when restlessness swept over her she sought the stairs she knew him to traverse late in the evenings. The recess welcomed her and the grumbling walls were her friends. She learned to recognise the sound of _his_ steps, not confusing them with those of other soldiers wearing boots of same kind. Where they all came from, she didn't know, but she preferred to think _him_ coming from the prince's side rather than from a winesink or a house of ill repute.

"You again?"

A grip, a touch she had learned to wait and into which she readily succumbed. He had stopped asking her why she was there by the third occasion he had encountered her on those serpentine steps. That time he had searched for her with his eyes already when ascending the steps as if expecting her there, and had come to her without speaking, his hand reaching for her elbow and she stepping closer as in a well-rehearsed dance.

Yet this time was different. He was always quiet when they walked but now his silence was loud, punctuated by seething glances he threw at her direction. The sneer she had gotten used to was more pronounced and his fingers dug into her flesh harder than before.

It was like it had been in the past – but then she had only seen the Hound and not the glimpses of the man behind the mask and she had accepted it as his custom and thought nothing more of it. Now it was different, and his silent disapproval took the joy out of those moments she had learned to look forward to, however brief and meaningless they might be.

Sansa didn't know what she had done to earn his disapproval and every step she took was heavier than the one before it until her feet were leaden and a fear that even _this_ would soon be taken away from her made her shoulders slump. Yet when the sight of her door finally greeted them and she braced herself against the moment when she would be alone once again, he suddenly yanked her towards her.

"Now tell me and tell it true, and don't even think about lying. What the bloody hells are you doing in the corridors of Red Keep at night?! I know and you know that you can't escape this place, so it can't be that."

Sansa was trapped between the wall of stone and the wall of muscle and which one of them was more unyielding she could not have said. One of the cords winding its way through the opening of his tunic had missed an eyelet and she could see a glimpse of his throat, covered in dark hair, through the open folds. The sight was too intimate and revealing even to her eyes attuned to observe him and she was slow in her reply, distracted by it.

"Bloody hells, girl! Are you sneaking out to see some fucking pompous knight, some gnat with a honeyed tongued? Are you as fool as that?"

She could only gasp and stare at him – she, seeking company of another? The echo of his words sounded around them. _Knight. Fool._

He shook her now, hands on both shoulders, so hard that her head was lolling back and forth.

"You can lie as much as you want to Joffrey and Cersei, chirp your courtesies and tell how much you love your betrothed and all that other bullshit. They don't know any better or don't care, but I can smell a lie. So don't even think of trying that game with me. Now, cough it up, girl!"

There had been a time when his fury would have terrified her, made her break her into tears and sob incoherent words to respond to his relentless questioning. Now finding the answer to his troubling behaviour made her only relieved and thankful and despite her uncomfortable position she sighed a sigh of relief. Staring at him past his snarl she saw in his eyes equal measures of worry and anger and although he handled her roughly, he was notably careful not to shake her too hard.

 _He is angry because he thinks I am doing something foolish. Or… because he thinks I have sought friendship of another?_ Both notions made her giddy, but she knew she had to set things straight with him immediately or risk losing his trust forever.

Sansa struggled with herself wondering how much she could reveal to him. Maybe it was all just a young girl's foolish notion, misplaced hope, desperate search for comfort even if just in the recesses of her own mind? _Will he tell Joffrey, will he laugh at me?_

And then the clarity washed over her and the answer was clear. She lifted her chin and stared at him solemnly.

"I don't play games - I say those things to stay alive."

His grip loosened, just a bit.

"I wander the corridors of Red Keep…" she took a deep breath "…waiting for you."

Only silence met her declaration. Whatever he might have expected this was clearly not it, and for a moment he had almost a comical look on his face; surprise, shock, disbelief.

Sansa let air escape her nostrils in an audible puff and with that an atmosphere of calm enveloped her. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she could trust him. He would not betray her secret, even if he considered it silly and childish _._

Nothing happened for a long time but eventually he dropped his arms by his side, letting her go. He opened his mouth to say something, swallowed, but stayed silent.

She didn't move and stood facing him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. To know that he had truly heard her and that he believed her. Suddenly it became the most important thing in the world to be sure that he knew that she spoke it true.

Then she felt his fingers on her jaw, jerking it up.

"And what bloody game is _that?_ You think I fall for it? Why?" His anger had returned, his lips pared back revealing two rows of straight white teeth – he was like a dog about to bite.

She was fearless and leaned into his touch, tilting her face to look at him. He didn't scare her anymore, not after what she had seen in him.

"I told you already. I don't play games."

He looked at her hard for a moment, studying her keenly, his eyes flicking between hers without blinking. Then he let her go again and looked away, seeking answers from the seams of stones on the wall. They offered none.

"You are the only one who has been kind to me," Sansa finally offered as a way of explanation, as he clearly needed one – anything he could wrap his head around.

Was that a lopsided smile he afforded, glancing at her? He muttered something but with so low voice that at first Sansa couldn't make out what it was.

"Fuck me sideways."

He turned around on his spot and clenched his fists, corded muscles of his lower arms undulating under his skin as he did so. Still he was staring at the wall as if it could solve this strange riddle.

Sansa extended her hand but at the last minute lost her nerve and pulled it back just as it was about to meet his elbow. He flinched nonetheless, then abandoned the wall and turned to look at her.

"Little bird, what are you doing?" His voice was softer than she had ever heard it but still a low growl.

"I trust you," she said simply.


	4. Pleased

**Author's Notes:** More of the two hesitant souls feeling their way slowly towards each other... Let me know if you like it!

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No exact words were ever exchanged to define the true nature of their arrangement, no assignments were ever decided on. He never asked and she never suggested. And yet somehow they started to find themselves at the roof of the turret near the serpentine stairs, when the pulsating rhythm of the keep died down and only castle cats and returning soldiers and wayward servants and trysting lovers scurried around the abandoned corridors.

He was the one who showed the almost concealed entrance to her one evening when she had been waiting for him once again, muttering about it being safer than the hallway. It probably was, the little rooftop location hidden and partially covered by the taller towers of the magnificent stronghold.

Sansa could see the muffled lights of the city from where she liked to sit, but they were so far and so obscure that she preferred imagining them being reflections of the moon on a stroppy surface of a pond. If she was there alone she could stare out there for a long time, letting her gaze span the horizon, feeling the cool air on her skin – and waiting.

For the iron studded boots scraping against stone.

Sometimes he was there when she arrived, sitting on a spot of his choosing near the entrance, always making sure he could see it in case of anyone entering their hiding place.

At first they didn't talk much. He might take his whetstone and polish his dagger or his sword – _whoosh-whoosh-whoosh,_ the steady sounds hushing her into a peaceful lull with their even rhythm.

She had no such occupation but she didn't mind. With him she felt herself free and released from a need to pretend to be something she wasn't, or behave in a way she didn't want to. She observed him when he toiled and noticed the purposeful manner of his actions; not a single movement was wasted or out of place.

One evening he cut himself though, but it was all because of her; she had chosen an ill moment to ask him a question. A trifle and insignificant one, about nothing at all and yet full of meaning for her. He cursed and as the first drops of bright red blood appeared on his thumb he stuck it in his mouth to suck it away.

Sansa could almost tasty the tangy iron taste on her own tongue, feel the prick on her own thumb. Hastily she rose to her feet and took the two steps that separated them, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him.

"Take this, I pray."

"Fu…" He stopped seemingly thinking better of it and looked at the dainty cloth in her hand. When he picked it their fingers touched and the coarseness of his fingertips felt real and reassuring to her.

The blood spread and formed whimsical shapes against the whiteness of the fabric. He pressed it tightly against his exposed flesh and soon the flow of the blood stopped.

"Spoiled, this thing. I can rinse this in cold water and bring it back to you, if it please you," he growled, looking sadly at the mangled piece of cloth.

 _If it please me?_ She thought of how much she was looking forward to those evenings of peace and quiet, just the two of them; and their hesitant conversations, testing their way around each other like two opponents – no, like two dancers – facing for the first time. Wary and yet proceeding in their steps, bit by bit.

"Yes, it will please me very much, thank you," she said out loud and tilted her head in acquiescence.

 _Never mind about the handkerchief._


	5. Breathless

**Author's Notes:** This time a bit longer chapter - that much about a little "drabble"... One more to go.

Thank you all you lovely people who have read and commented this tale; your feedback is most appreciated and inspiring!

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The reek of liquor was heady and strong coming from where he sat slumped in his usual seat, his broad shoulders hunched.

He hardly glanced in her direction, which disappointed Sansa. She had learned to cherish the change in his expression that took place these days when he saw her. How he knew that she was coming when she stepped as softly as a cat, or that she was already there when she was quiet as a dormice, she did not know, but he always saw her first – and his normally guarded expression transformed. It was subtle, but his frown smoothened and his face lit up and become more open, more vivid – less like the Hound and more like Sandor Clegane the man.

This night she was late, delayed by the maids tidying her room. Her patience had soon worn out on them and her mind had drifted into this rooftop and to this man whom she knew to be waiting, and time had crept and crawled and then stopped altogether and she had felt like she would never be free to leave.

And then she had fled, running through the passageways and up the winding stairs, around and around and around until her heart was pumping and her breath escaped in shallow gasps.

"I am sorry I am late," she panted.

No response. As she slipped past him the unmistakable smell assaulted her nostrils again - that he had drunk a lot was clear. A skin of strongwine in his lap and spills on his doublet told their tale, as did his brooding demeanour.

Sansa had seen him drunk before. The night when he had spilled out the story of his scars, like a dam bursting its seams, still gave her shivers. And there had been other times - but for their meetings in the rooftop he had been mostly sober.

Smoothing her dress she sat down, the joy of having reached him dissipating. She felt just a bit lonelier, just a bit more forlorn. The wind felt chillier, the lone night bird screeching in the distance sadder.

"Can't be late if there is no time set." Still he didn't look at her but spoke to the wineskin, twisting its top under his fingers. It was a marvel to behold judging by the attention he gave to it.

"I wanted to come earlier but…"

"Save your chirping, girl. You don't have to be here at any given time. In fact, fuck it, you don't have to be here _at all_."

He was more inebriated than she had first thought. The slight slur of his speech, the effort required to open the container and lift it to his lips. _And the unkind things he says._

"I wanted to…"

"Why _do_ you come? Tell me, I have been pondering over it." Having succeeded in his mission for a drink he put the skin down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. And finally he looked at her. His gaze was slightly unfocussed but most of all it was serious; deep pools of the greyest grey. She met it squarely, hoping to be able to bring him back from whatever dark place he had been in, to ask such a question.

He rose from his seat slowly but steadily, unhurriedly straightening himself to his full towering height. A slight sway on his feet – he was like a lone tree in the wind – and he started to walk towards her.

Sansa sat stiff and uncertain. _Should I leave? Why is he asking me this, and why now?_

Heavy steps behind her stopped suddenly; he was standing right behind her.

"Why does the Princess of the North waste her time with a dog? Why am I slinking into this rooftop night after night like some damn puppy, wagging my tail?"

His large hands landed on her shoulders, one on each side, their weight boring her down. Sansa's posture stiffened. She had learned to welcome his touch in those moments when the situation warranted a contact - when he escorted her or guided her steps - but this was not the same.

"If my fellows in the Kingsguard knew I sneak away to spend time with the betrothed of our noble king… just me and the juicy little morsel she is…and what do I do with her!" He laughed, a mirthless laugh devoid of joy, and his hands moved, edging closer to her throat.

Then a low growl next to the shell of her ear, so unexpected that she almost jumped. The tips of his hair brushed her shoulder and there was something unnerving in that he was so close, and still she couldn't see him.

"Do you think I haven't noticed the way your hips sway when you walk back and forth in front of me? Or the way your nipples stiffen when you sit on this ledge with wind blowing through your flimsy dress? Is that _intended_ for my eyes, do you mean to lead me from my cock to do your bidding?"

 _How can his voice be so soft when he says these horrible things?_ Sansa flinched.

"You say you don't play games – and I believe you. Not paltry games of ordinary wenches. Mayhap you play a _long_ game. Mayhap there is something you want and want badly, but you are simply cleverer than most to ask it outright."

His fingers travelled up to her jaw and stroked it, his thumbs remaining behind her neck. Softly and gently – a killer's coarse hands so tender… Then there was a sharp tug at the nape of her neck where he had gathered his hair into his grip and now pulled it up.

"Mayhap I don't mind being steered by my cock – if I know where it is leading." The pull was irresistible and she had no choice but to get on her feet. "But mayhap I would like to get a foretaste first."

Sharp yank and turn and she was facing him. She couldn't have moved even if she wanted to, and strangely she did not. Despite the uncouth words his tone was soothingly mesmerising and Sansa registered his touch more than what he said. He pulled her closer, bent his head down…

...and then he licked her.

A wet sliding drag with his flattened tongue, starting from her jaw, across her cheek and up her temple, finishing at the hairline on her forehead. Then he stopped but kept on pressing his tongue against her skin.

 _A kiss_ Sansa had been prepared for – even in the space of just a few seconds when he had pressed his face closer, curiosity about how his burned lips would feel against her own had crossed her mind. But this… it was not entirely unpleasant, but she was confused.

"Tasty…" he murmured, smacking his lips, not moving away.

She kept her eyes closed, oddly not feeling afraid. She knew that by all rights she should be – who knew what he might do next? And yet she stood still in his arms, breathless, her heart thumping louder than it had done after she had run the winding stairs up and up and up.

 _Is he going to kiss me at all?_ Almost imperceptibly she leaned towards him.

Nothing happened. His hot breath tickled against her temple but he didn't make a move. After a while she peeked from under half-opened eyelids to see him.

That intense stare again – this time fully focussed and burning, with a hint of question.

"What's wrong with you, girl, why are you not struggling? Why are you not telling me to bugger off, or crying? I am insulting you with my crudeness, aren't I?" He sounded genuinely perplexed.

Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Yes, maybe she should have done those things, maybe he thought her wanton because she hadn't. Yet as she could not play a seductress with him, neither could she play a damsel in distress if she didn't feel like one.

Truth was the only option. "I don't feel insulted, that's why."

He looked at her again, long and hard, before cursing softly. "Fuck me, little bird. What is it that you want from me? Why do you come here?"

 _This I can answer._

"I come here…because with you I can be who I really am. I don't have to lie or pretend. And because you are honest, and I have had enough of lies and deceit and betrayal for a lifetime." She wanted him to understand. "I want from you only that; your honesty."

His hands slid down her arms, not exactly a caress but following their contours until past her fingertips, his own touching them one more time before retreating.

"Is that all? You know you could ask more, much more. Any woman can ask things from a man and if the man is willing, there is nothing he won't do for her. Especially if the woman is ready to pay the price."

"The price?"

"With the currency you all have between your legs. Hells, don't tell me that you are such a naïve maiden that you don't know such things." Some of his earlier mocking tone had returned but it was as if he had suddenly sobered.

Sansa bit her lip. She could not think of those things, not those terms. That was not…fair.

"Come on, ask me. Do you want to go home, back to Winterfell? I can take you there."

"But you, you are loyal to King Joffrey!" She spurted out the words without thinking. _Home!_ If the Hound would help her, she could… But she had Ser Dontos, didn't she? He had written her and invited her to a clandestine meeting, and he had told her that he was her Florian and she was his Jonquil and _he_ would take her away.

In truth Sansa wasn't sure about the fool's ability or even his sincerity in the matter, but she didn't have any other options – or so she had thought - and she so very much wanted to go home.

 _What of the price Ser Dontos may demand?_

A loud chuckle ended in him spitting on the rooftop. "As you are loyal to your beloved king and can hardly wait for the day or your blessed union! The difference is that nobody even bothers to ask me – everyone only assumes that I will forever be a lickspittle to the Lannisters."

 _Oh._

"Ask me." His voice was low rumble, its tone almost teasing.

 _He could take me home, I know he could._

And yet the price was too high. Not only… _that_ … but if he was willing to trade with her on those terms he was not the man she thought he was.

Sansa took a step back and he let her. Slowly she shook her head. "No. I can't agree to such a bargain. I only want from you what you are willing to give me of your own free will."

Another long stare, his expression poorly concealed curiosity. How had she never noticed before how long his eyelashes were, dark and well-defined, under dense eyebrows lifting up in the corners like a raven prepared to fly when he had that quizzical look on his face?

Then he blew like a horse and walked past her across the roof into its furthest corner. An old grey barrel stood there, its forgotten duty to act as a water reservoir for putting down fires on the ramparts in case of a battle.

No battle had touched the Red Keep for a long time and the barrel was half-decayed and forgotten – but it had just been raining heavily. Now filled with water it stood there, ready to do its duty.

He dunked his head into it without hesitation, kept it under for a while and then threw it up and back so that a glittering spray of droplets flew from the tips of his long hair, some as far as to spray on Sansa's skin. Then he lowered his head against the dark water again, but this time he used his large hands and splashed water on his face, over and over again.

Every now and then he stopped to look into the faraway lights of the great city; stopped and stared, but whether he registered any of it was another matter.

All this time Sansa observed him, unsure of whether his actions were a sign for her to leave and let him be. She crossed her arms and remained standing there, hugging herself. She felt almost like an intruder accosting a noble beast in its grooming, during its private moment.

Then she remembered the lick and touched her face, tracing her fingers along where he had slid his tongue. She still didn't know what to make of it; it had felt so coarse and animalistic – what a _true_ dog would do – but it had also been…she tried to find a word…oddly _sensual_.

She was still swaying on her spot, undecided, when he turned around and wiped water off his face with his hand. One step, two steps, three steps – she raised her eyes to where he stood right in front of her. His dark hair gleamed wet in the torchlight.

"Do you want to go home?"

His voice was softer than ever before, a light tilt culminating in an elevated pitch at the end of his question. Sansa stayed silent – she didn't want to return to the topic that was so distasteful to her.

"I can take you there – and I don't expect a price from you. Your virtue is safe with me. "

Sansa frowned. Was he playing a trick?

"Of course I want to go home. You don't even have to ask that. But why would I take your offer as an honest one?"

"Because it is honestly made. You said it yourself, I speak true. All I ask is that you don't let your angry Northmen to take my head off my shoulders before we can convince them that I am not the enemy."

One more step and he was so close that Sansa could feel the heat of his body – yet he didn't touch her.

"Like you, I settle for what you are willing to _give_ , not to trade. Fuck me if I know why, but you can believe that."

Somewhere deep inside her something stirred, softly at first, then it grew and grew into a red hot flurry of excitement and elation. _He is taking me home! He!_ What she had not even dared to dream of but suddenly realised she wanted more than anything in this world – in her reach. All she had to do was to say yes.

Suddenly it all was too much for her; his anger, the lick, his rude offer – and now _this_. She tried to tame the ocean of emotions swelling inside her but failed.

"Yes, I will come with you," she breathed, raised on her tiptoes and planted a quick chaste kiss on his cheek, the unmarred side, then turned and ran away without looking back. Down the stairs, down the corridor, her legs carrying her as fast as they could - but in her mind she was flying.

 _He promised. He is true to his word,_ the knowledge vibrated through her whole body. She knew she could trust him, had always known.

Yet it was not his promise that prevented her from sleeping that night and made her hot and breathless as she tossed and turned in her bed. No, it was the feel of his tongue against her cheek, his breath against it, his murmur in her ear.


	6. Home

**Author's Notes:** Apologies for the delay with this – it is funny how return to real life slows down one's writing! This, like the previous chapter, grew quite a bit bigger than originally intended – but then again, I did try to tell a full story in six prompts, so… *smiles sheepishly*

* * *

 _"I will take you to your home as soon as it is possible."_

He had said when they sneaked away from the Red Keep in the darkness of the night.

 _"I will take you to Winterfell as soon as the search for us has quietened down."_

He had said when they settled into the rhythm of the road, taking small paths and avoiding main roads, sleeping rough under the open skies or in collapsed ruins of homesteads.

 _"I will take you home as soon as it is safe, when your kingly brother has finished waging his war."_

He had said when they found a small village in the Vale in need of his services to build a palisade around it against marauders.

All those times she had smiled and nodded and accepted his words with good grace. She didn't mind rough living, riding through the days, or the night fires in which they cooked their meagre fare. She didn't mind the village, where people were cautious but honest, the food was plain but the meals were assured, and the air smelled of forest.

The care he took of her, easing her discomfort wherever he could, touched her. He never complained, never raised his voice in anger, never lost his calm. In turn she tended to him the best she could, unused as she was to such life. But she learned; learned how to skin a hare, how to start a fire even with wet kindling, how to pack and unpack their saddle bags in no time at all. And every time when he grunted his approval of something she had done, she beamed happily, her confidence in her own worth growing and growing - as did her affection for him.

It had strengthened from her observations in the close quarters they shared on the road, when she had learned more about men - and about him especially - than ever in her years as a protected maiden of a noble house. At first seeing him relieving himself against a tree, exhaling in satisfaction after holding on for the whole morning, had embarrassed her. The brutal and efficient way he disposed of trapped hares and birds with blood-stained hands had made her queasy. Seeing him in his undershirt or worse; without his shirt and his breeches hanging loose over his hips in unguarded moments when he was washing himself in a stream, had elicited a more peculiar reaction in her that she couldn't name.

Yet she knew his manners to be as decent as could be expected in the circumstances, the death of their prey an unpleasant but necessary part of staying alive, and… a man to be able to defend her life had to be broad of shoulders and chest and have arms thick of muscle. How exactly the dark hair covering his upper body fitted into the picture she wasn't sure of, but somehow it suited him and she rested her curious eye on it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

* * *

Their first few nights in the barn of the village inn were over once Sandor's worth had been measured and found satisfactory, and they were offered a house of their own. A simple wooden hut with two chambers, a small main room and a tiny kitchen at the back of the house. That a noble maiden raised to rule over a household of a vast castle found so much satisfaction in ruling that lowly hut was a surprise to both of them, not the least to Sansa herself. For once _she_ was the one who made the decisions and did what _she_ deemed fit, with nobody harking orders at her. What they ate, how she prettied their plain abode, what did she do with her time, who did she see and when – what a liberating experience it was for her, and she was heady with delight of finally being in control of her everyday life.

A goat for milk and a cat to keep her company when Sandor was at work and she was happier than she remembered being for a long, long time.

When the palisades were done he helped to build more things. When the marauders from the mountain clans came, he fought alongside the villagers. His further value was recognised and respected and the welcome they had received became warmer still.

Sansa too inched her way into the weave of village life little by little. She took odd jobs of sewing, and once the others saw fineness of her stitch and endurance of her clothes, more and more work came on her way. She made friends with wives and daughters and young maidens and found them refreshingly direct and affable. A cover story of being a daughter of a lady's maid and hence castle raised explained her fine speech. That the others pitied her at first by the account of her husband being so rough and unsightly she was aware of, but dedication and warmth she spoke of him soon convinced the others that such feelings were most misplaced.

Everyone assumed them to be man and wife and they saw no reason to dispel that misunderstanding. She felt it to be dishonest and was uncomfortable in the face of it, but there was a part of her that relished the image conjured. _He my lord husband, I his lady wife?_

And yet despite the tranquil domesticity they settled in an odd hollowness captured her oftentimes; a sudden ache and longing that for the longest time she couldn't explain. That she missed his large form near her as she slept, when it had meant safety and security in their time of danger, she had recognised from the first night in her new chamber. They had always lain side by side but chaste; he had not touched her and more often than not had turned his back on her and slept soundly while she had been kept awake by the noises of the forest. Not once had he taken liberties with her, laid his hand on her inappropriately or raised the topic of a price for his protection in his speech.

That he touched her even less than before, assiduously avoiding even the most innocent contact, told her that there might have been a purpose in his hold before, so readily taken and so slowly relinquished. A purpose that his promise to her had defeated. No, he wouldn't challenge her virtue in any shape of form after he had assured her he wouldn't, she knew.

She was safe and danger felt far away in this isolated village high up in the mountains – so what could ail her still?

When the answer finally presented itself it was so obvious that she could have laughed. Why hadn't she seen that before, as plain as a day it was in front of her nose? She needed him not for her safety nor even for the habit of companionship – but because she needed him as a woman needs and wants man; _a companion, a confidante,_ _a_ _lover_ … Her initial fascination and curiosity had grown into a feeling she now recognised to be something more, something purer and yet something altogether more earthly and straightforward.

 _I love him._

Release of the tension that had started to build inside her was instantaneous and liberating – but immediately replaced by a new one. _Does he care about me?_

That she scrutinised him more than before that evening over the meal they shared in the small main room - he weary from his toil, chewing his food steadily - didn't escape his attention. Still even when he growled at her, not unkindly, if he had suddenly sprouted horns or why did he held her attention so profoundly, she couldn't share with him her discovery. Shyness and uncertainty froze her in her spot and although he in turn lay his eyes on her searchingly, he didn't press her any further.

And so it was that instead of words that she couldn't articulate, it was she sneaking into his bed one dark night that conveyed to him what was her heart's desire.

Instead of resisting her and pushing her away – after recovering from his initial shock and strainedly enquiring whether she had finally lost her bloody mind or was this some new form of torture she wanted to subject him to – he opened his arms and his heart and his soul to her with such fierceness that she was soon under no doubt that he too felt the same. It was not revealed to her by his words but by his actions – the care and protection he had afforded her ever since King's Landing moving into a new, intimate level.

It was hesitant, it was awkward, it was endearing and it was _magnificent_. He tended to her newly found needs with his own body; with his hands and his mouth and his manhood. He watched over her when she shattered into thousand pieces and he helped her to put them all back together again, once she learned to let herself go and allowed her body to freely react to the unfamiliar world of bodily delights.

They discovered a new language and new world together, diligently educating themselves those long nights when evenings didn't arrive soon enough and mornings were but a blink of an eye away.

And of all the things he did to her - many of them making her blush in the light of day - his game of licks all over her body was the one which she loved the most. Maybe it was the reminiscent of the first time he had consumed her so, but whenever he pressed her down with a mischievous glint in his eyes, smacking his lips and murmuring how he felt like tasting his little bird, she was inflamed in a way that she knew not to be proper for a lady – but she couldn't have cared less.

Then the news reached them – after having travelled slowly and tortuously across the vales and hills and forests – of the reaping of Winterfell and the cowardly murder of the young wolves, and later about the treacherous wedding feast in the Twins. And so it was that endless nights, when he held her in his arms while she wept, built yet another level of trust and closeness between them. The Hound and the little bird, an unlikely pair if there ever was one.

* * *

When Sansa missed her monthly flow, her breasts grew tender and the smell of food made her stomach churn out its contents, it took only one discussion with the herb-lady of the village to confirm what she had already suspected. Their precautions – easily forgotten in the heat of passion or mourning – had been inadequate and the outcome should have been quite unsurprising.

The first row they had was soon after that; not that he wouldn't have been in awe and cautiously pleased over the news. Yet his joy was marred by his staunch view that Sansa was still the high-born daughter of a noble house, and spoiling her future by carrying a bastard born from an unworthy alliance would damage her prospects in the world.

She had to put her foot down and assert her newfound confidence and strength – ironically largely reinforced by the one who was now at the receiving end of her indignation. She would keep the babe and they would raise him or her together. And besides, the babe was not going to be a bastard because it was high time they tied the knot also in front of the gods as they had done in the eyes of the villagers and in the depths of their own hearts. His bark about her wasting herself on a dog and the northerners never accepting her if she did so, she dismissed with a graceful wave of her slender hand. If the fate of the North was tied to Starks, as was believed by all, she would find a way. And if she couldn't – at that she had shrugged her shoulders and flicked her head – she would rather have a husband who loved her and whom she loved and a babe or a dozen, than play a role in the cruel game of thrones alone.

What eventually convinced him she never knew. After an evening spent on the hillside high up above the village, on a secret recess of a stony ledge protected by large boulders they had found together, he had returned to their hut stern-faced but resolute - like a man who had truly had set his course and nothing would waver him from it.

They wed the following week in front of a half-blind, half-drunk septon, who had retired from the temptations of worldly life to live in the hills – albeit attraction to drink seemed to have remained with him. People thought him simple but harmless, and whether he truly had the rights to perform the ceremony or not they did not know nor care. As long as he was the only septon around and he mumbled the words they both had heard many times before, and was able to sign his name into the document Sansa had scribed according to his vague instructions, that was good enough for them. It was probably better anyway that he was not a man of the world, as they used their real names to make their marriage true and binding.

The babe was born, hale and hearty, with a tuft of dark hair and an appearance of a northman. With the babe Sansa's life changed once more. The new and wonderful emotion that had slowly grown alongside her swelling belly reached its peak when she finally laid her eyes on her son; love so fierce and strong that it surpassed anything she had ever felt. Seeing her son with her lord husband, who spent many an evening staring at the small wriggling creature with an expression of abject awe and wonderment, was almost more than she could bear. Often she had to close her eyes and whisper her gratitude to the gods, be they old or new, for the happiness they had bestowed on her.

The yearning for home, for the place where she had grown up and for the family she had loved, withered and weakened and eventually there were days when Sansa didn't think of them even once, so consumed was she with her new life, her new family and her new place in the world. When that happened and when she eventually remembered the need that had driven her before, she felt a mixture of guilt and relief. Why to miss something that was already beyond her reach; the place of her birth razed down and held by others, her family scattered into the four winds and dead?

And so the dream of Winterfell faded until it was only a vague memory at the far recess of her mind.

The arrival of a new babe, scarcely a surprise after they had resumed their intimate relations once again, further cemented her life there and then, with her own family. Another son, as dark and strong as his brother and his father. If Sansa had though her heart already been filled to them brim before, she now saw that it stretched even more and easily accommodated the new arrival. The second time around he too knew what to expect and together they dived headlong into the parenthood and the bonds already forged grew stronger still.

And then they heard the news.

* * *

Only whispers, they were, more than news; vague rumours and wishful mutterings, carried by a few rare travellers who crossed the mountains to disturb the peace of their little village.

 _'The wolves are back'_ they said. _'The spirits of the King in the North and his wolf have returned, in the form of a wee lad and a huge black beast'_ , they declared.

Most people took the tales as idle chatter, born from despair of the Northerners languishing under cruel rulers. Yet Sansa's world turned upside down when she first heard them. _Rickon! Shaggydog!_ Many had already forgotten the young boys of the House of Stark - but she hadn't.

 _"I will take you home as soon as we have put our life here together and made ready for the journey."_

He said when all the rumours were confirmed coming from one place and one place alone; from White Harbour. This time she nodded but she didn't smile, as she knew that to be happening for real.

Their last night in their hut - and Sansa's mind churned over all that lie ahead, and all the she was leaving behind.

"Stop tossing and turning, little bird. It does you no good and makes tomorrow's travel only harder." A gravelly voice next to her startled her. Her lord husband observed her under his brow, resting his head against his outstretched arm. She had seen him thus for hundreds of times, his gaze sometimes amused and teasing, sometimes tender and calming, sometimes passionate and burning. Hardly ever she saw the remnants of the rage that had resided in them before.

"It is just…I didn't think there was anything left for me anymore up in the North. And I had accepted that, I had learned to live with the fact that this…" her eyes swept across their little room, past the wooden crib and the little cot that contained her sons, her family, her life, "…is home now. And yet I know that I have duties for my other family, and for my other home. And I don't mind that! It is just that…"

"Fuck your duties." He pulled her closer, his large hands warm and assuring in their knowledge of how to sooth her, how to make her feel safe, and when the moment was right, how to awaken her senses. "I promised to take you home and it is about fucking time I finally do it. We will find your little brother and you and he shall stir the North and kick those bloody usurpers out of Winterfell. And my job is done."

Sansa moulded into his embrace, every curve fitting perfectly into the grooves of his hard body.

"No. Your job is not done, don't ever dare to say a thing like that." She squeezed his hand hard. All this talk about home; was it here in this little village that had welcomed her and where she had found happiness and founded a family of her own - not her parent's, but _hers?_ Or was it in the cold plains of the North in the ancient seat of House Stark, where her ancestors' bones resided in the crypts?

Then a profound understanding hit Sansa and taking a shuddering breath she turned to face him, whispering.

"My home is where you are; you and our babes. Be it here or in the North or across the sea. _You_ are my home."

The slow grin that tugged the corners of his mouth in a rough approximation of a smile, the expression she had learned to love, spread on his homely, scarred face.

"It took this long for you to figure that out, highborn and well tutored maid and all? Hells, I knew already in King's Landing that you were my one and only chance for home. Fuck if I could have guessed that it ever came to this, though."

Relieved and lightheaded she nuzzled her face against his chest and breathed in his smell, her nose buried into the thick dark hair.

 _Home._

 **THE END**


End file.
